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is still young; it exhibits neither wrinkles nor decay; whether radiant with smiles or awfully beautiful in frowns, it is still enchanting, and not less fraught with spiritual than material attractions, if we do but know how to moralize upon her features and presentments. To consider, for instance, this balmy air which is gently waving the branches of a chestnut-tree before my eyes-what a mysterious element it is! Powerful enough to shipwreck navies, and tear up the deepgrappling oak, yet so subtle as to be invisible, and so delicate as not to wound the naked eye. Naturally imperishable, who can imagine all the various purposes to which the identical portion may have been applied, which I am at this instant inhaling? Perhaps at the creation it served to modulate into words the sublime command, "Let there be light," when the blazing sun rolled itself together, and upheaved from chaos-perhaps impelled by the jealous Zephyrus, it urged Apollo's quoit against the blue-veined forehead of Hyacinthus ;-it may perchance have filled the silken sails of Cleopatra's vessel, as she floated down the Cydnus; or have burst from the mouth of Cicero in the indignant exordium-" Quousque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientiâ nostrâ?" or his still more abrupt exclamation, "Abiit-evasit— excessit―erupit !" It may have given breath to utter the noble dying speeches of Socrates in his prison, of Sir Philip Sidney on the plains of Zutphen, of Russell at the block. But the same inexhaustible element which would supply endless matter for my reflections, may perhaps pass into the mouth of the reader, and

be vented in a peevish-" Psha! somewhat too much of this," and I shall therefore hasten to take my leave of him, claiming some share of credit, that when so ample a range was before me, my speculations should so soon, like the witches in Macbeth, have "made themselves air, into which they vanished."


THE bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud,
And Earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood,
Which, warm'd by summer suns in th' alembic of the vine,
From her founts will over-run in a ruddy gush of wine.

The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower,
Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower;
And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits,
Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots.

How awful is the thought of the wonders under ground,
Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark profound;
How each thing upward tends by necessity decreed,
And a world's support depends on the shooting of a seed!

The Summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinion'd day
Is commission'd to remark whether Winter holds her sway:
Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy wing,
Say that floods and tempests cease, and the world is ripe for

Thou hast fann'd the sleeping Earth till her dreams are all of flowers,

And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers; The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves,

And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves.

Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave,

By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave;
And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their wing,
Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring.

The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills,
And the feather'd race rejoices with a gush of tuneful bills;
And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with glee,
O thou sunny first of March, be it dedicate to thee.


The Milkmaid and the Banker.

A MILKMAID with a very pretty face,
Who lived at Acton,

Had a black Cow, the ugliest in the place,
A crooked-back'd one,

A beast as dangerous, too, as she was frightful,
Vicious and spiteful,

And so confirm'd a truant, that she bounded
Over the hedges daily, and got pounded.
'Twas all in vain to tie her with a tether,
For then both cord and cow eloped together.
Arm'd with an oaken bough, (what folly!

It should have been of birch, or thorn, or holly,)
Patty one day was driving home the beast,

Which had, as usual, slipp'd its anchor,

When on the road she met a certain Banker,

Who stopp'd to give his eyes a feast

By gazing on her features, crimson'd high
By a long cow-chase in July.

"Are you from Acton, pretty lass ?" he cried :

Yes," with a curtsey she replied.

Why then you know the laundress, Sally Wrench?” "She is my cousin, Sir, and next-door neighbour." "That's lucky-I've a message for the wench, Which needs despatch, and you may save my labour. Give her this kiss, my dear, and say I sent it,

But mind, you owe me one-I've only lent it.".

"She shall know," cried the girl, as she brandish'd her bough,

"Of the loving intentions you bore me;

But as to the kiss, as there's haste, you'll allow

That you'd better run forward and give it my Cow,

For she, at the rate she is scampering now,

Will reach Acton some minutes before me."

The Farmer's Wife and the Gascon.

AT Neuchatel, in France, where they prepare
Cheeses that set us longing to be mites,
There dwelt a farmer's wife, famed for her rare
Skill in these small quadrangular delights.
Where they were made, they sold for the immense
Price of three sous a-piece ;

But as salt-water made their charms increase,
In England the fix'd rate was eighteen-pence.

This damsel had to help her in the farm,
To milk her cows and feed her hogs,
A Gascon peasant, with a sturdy arm
For digging or for carrying logs,
But in his noddle weak as any baby,

In fact a gaby,

And such a glutton when you came to feed him,

That Wantley's dragon, who "ate barns and churches,

As if they were geese and turkies,"

(Vide the Ballad,) scarcely could exceed him.

One morn she had prepared a monstrous bowl
Of cream like nectar,

And wouldn't go to Church (good careful soul !)
Till she had left it safe with a protector;
So she gave strict injunctions to the Gascon,
To watch it while his mistress was to mass gone.

Watch it he did he never took his eyes off,

But lick'd his upper, then his under lip,
And doubled up his fist to drive the flies off,
Begrudging them the smallest sip,
Which if they got,

Like my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh,
And cried," O happy, happy fly,

How I do envy you your lot!"

Each moment did his appetite grow stronger;
His bowels yearn'd;

At length he could not bear it any longer,

But on all sides his looks he turn'd,

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And finding that the coast was clear, he quaff'd
The whole up at a draught.

Scudding from church, the farmer's wife

Flew to the dairy;

But stood aghast, and could not, for her life,

One sentence mutter,

Until she summon'd breath enough to utter

"Holy St. Mary!"

And shortly, with a face of scarlet,

The vixen (for she was a vixen) flew

Upon the varlet,

Asking the when, and where, and how, and who

Had gulp'd her cream, nor left an atom ;

To which he gave not separate replies,
But with a look of excellent digestion
One answer made to every question-
"The Flies!"

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